


Lay Down My Heart at Your Feet

by Spoodlemonkey



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Brief appearance by Enzo, Comfort, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, It still Hurts, Kneeling, Like a week ago, M/M, Post Leafs loss to Panthers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:47:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,853
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22328821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoodlemonkey/pseuds/Spoodlemonkey
Summary: It’s a four hour drive from Ottawa to Toronto.
Relationships: Frederik Andersen/Connor Brown
Comments: 2
Kudos: 114





	Lay Down My Heart at Your Feet

**Author's Note:**

> First of all, happy belated birthday Connor Brown! I hope you never find this. (A goal and an assist in his last three games??? Third star twice, second star once? So proud of him!) Secondly, what the hell guys, can we stop screwing over Freddie? If we could remember how to play that would be cool. (This once in awhile thing doesn't work. Stop putting it all on Freddie, damn it.)
> 
> Unbeta'd so any mistakes are my own! As always, don't own.

It’s an easy evening in Ottawa; the rain had finally let up early afternoon, temperature dropping and heavy clouds rolling in, threatening to blanket the city in snow by morning. The constantly changing weather reminds him of Toronto, of going out to practice during a snowstorm and coming home to rain. Connor ends up at Enzo’s apartment for dinner, just as the first flakes start to fall. They get takeout and put on Disney, bundled up in opposite corners of the couch. He’s been feeling off lately, a heavy weight settled in his stomach since New Years. If he squints and tilts his head he could call it homesickness. 

What do you call it if it’s for a person? 

The Leafs are down in Florida and he’s been enjoying Snaps from Mitch and Willy all weekend. It’s easy to take his mind off their overtime loss when he can chirp the boys about the fun, dumb touristy stuff they’re doing. 

He keeps one eye on the score when the game starts and one eye on Hercules, warm and comfortable and so,  _ so _ lucky to have a friend like Enzo. He’s selfishly happy that they were traded together, a friend from his home team in a brand new place. The trade was the worst- but he knows so long as they can keep playing hockey, they’ll both be happy.

And it could be worse, right? He could have been traded to the  _ Preds. _

He’d  _ hate _ being on the other side of the country.

Connor checks the score ten minutes in and- oh. 

Enzo catches his wince.

“The guys are off to a rough start.” He explains, flashing him the screen. 

Enzo lets out a low whistle at the score. “It’ll get better.” He reasons. “Give them five minutes and Matty will have a hatty or something dumb.” 

It doesn’t get better.

Connor shoots Freddie a quick text right before intermission, but doesn’t get anything back. He’s not surprised considering how the games going.

The second starts and Connor knows before it happens that Freddie’s about to get pulled. He’s got a stream up on his phone, muted so he can at least pretend to watch the movie. Enzo’s nice enough to ignore him.

His stomach is in knots as he watches Freddie disappear down the tunnel. He’s not gone long, but it’s long enough to know that Freddie’s fuming. His stick, noticeably, has disappeared. He has a feeling the stick has met its end.

Connor’s on his feet before his mind can catch up with his body.

“Drive safe.” Enzo glances over at him, expression knowing. 

Connor flushes at being so easily read but doesn’t contradict him.

“Tell the guys I’ll see them Tuesday?” Enzo nods, waving him off, and Connor scoops up his jacket, hurrying out the door.

::   
  


It’s a four hour drive from Ottawa to Toronto.

Connor doesn’t bother speeding; he stopped at home to grab a duffle and feed Mr. Samuelson- he has a sitter that can pop in and feed him until he gets back- and then he hits the road. He plays music, singing along off key to Lizzo, fingers tapping on the steering wheel. He makes a few stops at  _ On the Route’s _ , stocks up on Timmies and dried mango slices, checking the score for the second and third periods when he does. 

It’s a slaughter.

The game ends just after 9:30, and he shoots off a quick text to the group chat he’s still a part of. There’s a message from Gards too, but the guys don’t reply, probably getting prepped by Keefe to face the media. 

Connor winces- that’s not something he misses. Toronto media is a thousand times worse than anything Ottawa can throw at them. 

Traffic is light for the time of night and he manages to make it to Toronto around one in the morning. Sunday night is quieter in the city, even the nightlife tucked into bed after a long weekend spent out. Connor knows his parent’s are sound asleep by now, have been for hours, but he sends them a quick message, just to let them know he’ll be in town for the day if they want to have lunch.

The night guard at the front desk waves in greeting, curious gaze following Connor as he heads for the elevator. It’s been awhile since he’s been able to make it into the city- even longer since he came wandering in so late at night. 

The apartments on the fourth floor; the familiar grey carpeted floors and white walls are soothing as he pads silently towards their door. His key fits easily in the lock and the tight ball of anxiety he’s carried with him since New Years loosens. Of course it wouldn’t change. It’s still  _ his _ apartment too, despite living the majority of the time in another city. 

Not much has changed, he notes idly, flicking on the hall light once he’s inside. Freddie is as tidy as ever, even more so without Connor to leave blankets on the couch and sweaters tossed over the back of a chair. The urge to leave his mark, to slip back in like he never left overwhelms him and he has to pause for a moment, braced against the armchair. The leather warms under his fingers, buttery soft and he flushes as the memories of that chair hit him. He tugs off his sweater, laying it over the arm, satisfied at how it looks.

Freddie won’t be in until late, if he makes it back before morning with media, the flight and customs. Now that he’s here, exhaustion from the long drive tugs at him. His eyes feel gritty from staring ahead at the dark stretches of highway. Connor scrubs the heels of his hands over his eyes, fighting back a yawn. He pads to the bedroom, not bothering with the light as he kicks off his jeans, shrugging his shirt over his head. The cool air of the room hits him and he shivers, involuntarily. Freddie’s sweaters haven’t moved, still kept folded neat and tidy in the bottom drawer of the dresser. Connor’s dresser is on the other side of the room, but it’s half empty now, the majority of his clothes in Ottawa with him. He doesn’t want one of his sweaters anyways.

Freddie’s hoody dwarfs him, falling mid thigh, sleeves hanging past his fingers. It smells like their detergent. Connor tugs the collar up, buries his nose in the soft material and breathes it in. 

There’s still a charger on his side of the bed, so he plugs his phone in, crawling under the duvet. The sheets don’t smell like  _ them _ anymore, but they still smell like Freddie. He cocoons himself, the stress of the past few weeks melting away now that he’s home, back in  _ their _ bed.

He drifts off at some point, doesn’t really mean to, but is asleep between one blink and the next. 

Connor wakes to the bed dipping. Awareness comes back slowly, and for a moment he can’t remember where he is, mind clouded with sleep. 

“Sorry I woke you.” Freddie whispers, brushing long, talented fingers along Connor’s cheek. He smiles, leaning into the touch. It’s still dark out, a sliver of light slipping through the crack in the blinds from the street lamps out front. 

“S’okay,” Connor stretches a little, pushes until he’s upright. Freddie’s hand falls back into his lap and Connor reaches out and snags it, tangling their fingers together. “You just get in?”

Freddie nods. His head hangs, shoulders slumped, like there’s a weight there that he just can’t shake. Connor’s heart aches for him. 

“Hey,” he frees his hand to cup Freddie’s face, forcing him to meet his gaze. He presses a brief, sweet kiss to his lips. “What can I do?”

Freddie tilts forwards, pressing their foreheads together, and lets out a shaky breath. Connor can hear the frustration, the blame in it. He wants to wipe it away, leave the slate clean. Freddie’s quiet for so long that Connor begins to suspect that he’s bottling it up, swallowing it all down, unwilling or unable to share. When he speaks, Connor nearly misses it, his voice barely a whisper.

“Kneel for me.”

Connor presses a kiss to his cheek, scrambling from the bed, eager. After the warmth of the blankets, the cool air has him shivering. He settles easily at Freddie’s feet though, sliding closer when Freddie spreads his massive thighs, making space for him. Anticipation frizzles through him, building in his chest.

Freddie’s hand comes to rest, heavy and warm on the back of Connor’s neck, urging him to rest his head on his thigh and Connor presses his cheek to the soft material of his suit, feeling the heat of his skin through the layers. It’s been so long since they’ve done this-  _ too _ long. It’s easy though, after all this time, to trust Freddie to take care of him. He smells of his cologne and sweat, familiar and grounding. 

He lets his eyes slide shut and drifts. 

He’d tried to explain it to Freddie once- the warmth that suffuses his limbs, the haze that settles over his thoughts. It does as much for Freddie as it does for him, balances him, smoothes the rough, jagged edges away until all that’s left is them. For the first time in ages the stress falls away, the worry, everything but the feeling of Freddie surrounding him. Long, talented fingers card through Connor’s hair, scratch lightly at his scalp and he melts into the touch. 

The silence of the apartment settles over them like a warm blanket, bundling them up tight and for that moment, blocking out the harshness of the night. Connor doesn’t know how long they stay like that, caught up in each other, but it feels like forever and no time at all before Freddie’s bringing him out of it. 

He goes slow, both for himself, and for Connor, tugging a little on Connor’s hair with every pass of his hand, his other hand stroking along Connor’s shoulders, back, anywhere he can reach. Each pass reawakens his nerve endings, makes him more aware of the strong muscles under his cheek, the way his knees ache from maintaining the position for so long. 

His head feels heavy, body leadened, but he manages to lift it enough to find Freddie’s gaze. His eyes are soft, expression warm and open as he watches Connor.

“How’re you feeling?” Connor hums, not sure how to put into words that this is the best he’s felt in  _ ages. _ Freddie seems to understand though, he always does. “Do you want more? Or do you want to go to bed?” 

Sleep sounds  _ wonderful, _ but there’s a growing itch under his skin, one that reminds him how long it’s been since he was last on his knees for Freddie. Heat pools in his stomach. The words feel thick and uncooperative on his tongue; he ducks his head back down, brushes his cheek over the noticeable bulge in Freddie’s slacks, mouths at it and feels Freddie’s fingers tighten in his hair, hears the sharp intake of breath.

Freddie doesn’t ask him if he’s sure, doesn’t try to make Connor speak, just uses his grip to pull Connor from where he’s left the material dark, wet from spit. His free hand deftly undoes his belt, gets his zipper undone, pulling out his cock. It’s as big and thick as the rest of him and Connor’s mouth waters at the familiar sight. He’s half hard just from having Connor on his knees. It’s a heady feeling, knowing he can affect such an amazing man like this.

Freddie gently urges him closer with the hand in his hair. He holds him just far enough back that Connor can’t do more than mouth at the soft, spongy head, tongue flickering out to catch the taste of skin and sweat. He glances up, catches the way Freddie’s gaze darkens, expression heated and possessive. Sealing his lips more firmly over the head of his cock, Connor lets his eyes drift shut, humming happily. Heat simmers in his veins, his own cock hard in his boxers, but he makes no move to touch himself, arms loose at his sides, happy to let Freddie dictate the pace. The urge to come isn’t there, not yet, despite the arousal pooling in his stomach, at the base of his spine. 

Freddie uses his grip to urge him to take more, his cock sliding hot and heavy along Connor’s tongue, stretching his lips wide as he works to take it. He doesn’t let Connor up, just keeps going until Connor gags, nose almost buried in the coarse hair at the base of his cock. Connor flushes, cheeks burning as Freddie lets him up for a quick breath, before pulling him back down onto his cock. He sets the rhythm, Connor trying to keep up, to please, as Freddie fucks Connor’s mouth. His free hand rests on Connor’s cheek, pressing against his skin, tracing his lips to feel his cock slide in and out. His breathing picks up speed, thighs shaking minutely. He redoubles his efforts, desperate to make Freddie come, to make him shake apart the way he does Connor. 

Freddie pushes all the way in and stills. Connor has no choice but to swallow as Freddie spills down his throat with a soft groan. 

Connor rests against Freddie’s thigh as his grip relaxes, lets him up off his cock as they both try to catch their breath, his touch gentle as he strokes along Connor’s sweat soaked temples, through his damp hair. 

Without Freddie’s cock in his mouth, his own is much more noticeable; the arousal that had been simmering in his veins, surging through him like a wildfire and leaving him panting and desperate. He digs his nails into his palms to keep from touching himself. 

“Come up here.” Freddie’s voice is rougher, deeper, and Connor shivers, biting his swollen lip. His knees protest as he levers himself to his feet, leaning heavily against Freddie’s thighs, but Freddie is there, strong hands helping him up. He urges Connor to rest his hands on his shoulders, hands skimming along his bare thighs where the sweatshirt comes to rest. The front is distended obscenely and Connor gasps when Freddie presses lightly against it, a tease. The chuckle it draws from Freddie goes straight to his cock.

“You look gorgeous in my clothes.” He murmurs, pushing the sweater up. He frowns when he realizes Connor’s still wearing boxers, quickly rectifying it. He tosses Connor’s boxers towards the closet with a sharp grin. 

“Fred,” Connor whines, fingers digging into his broad shoulders. His legs feel shaky, unsteady, and his heart is thundering in his ears.  _ “Freddie.” _

“Shh, I’ve got you.” He wraps one big hand around Connor’s cock and his knees nearly buckle- his grip on Freddie the only thing that keeps him standing.

Freddie doesn’t take it easy on him; he starts a fast, brutal pace that has Connor panting, head bowed, eyes half lidded because he can’t keep them open but he can’t look away from the sight of Freddie’s hand on his cock. 

Freddie’s grip is slick from how wet he is, and tight, and he’s sending Connor racing towards the tipping point before he’s aware of it.

His knees give out when he comes but Freddie catches him easily, tugging him into his lap as his hand works Connor’s cock until he’s shaking and it’s all too much. Only then does Freddie let up, pressing sweet kisses to every inch of Connor he can reach instead. 

There are spots flashing across his vision, his heart pounding in his ears. He’s hot and sticky and pretty sure he covered Freddie’s sweater in come. 

He feels  _ amazing. _

He catches Freddies mouth in a hot, slick kiss, trying to convey without words how much he’s missed him, how much he loves him. Freddie clings back, presses back into the kiss until it slows, until they’re both yawning into each others mouths more than anything else. Only then do they seperate.

Freddie’s sweater ends up on the floor, his suit in the closet and, after a quick trip to the washroom, they both crawl into bed. Freddie tugs him until he can press up against Connor’s back, arm around his waist. Through the crack in the blinds Connor can make out the first hints of dawn. He knows he should get up, close them properly, but it would take an army to get him to leave Freddie’s embrace now. 

“Feel any better?” He asks the quiet of the room. His eyes feel heavy, limbs leadened with sleep. It’s a good thing he has an alarm on his phone or he’d probably just sleep all day, curled up with Freddie.

“No,” Freddie lies. Connor can feel the curve of his smile against the back of his neck.

“Yeah,” he curls his hand around Freddie’s where it rests on his stomach. “Me neither.” 

Freddie huff of laughter follows him quickly into sleep. 


End file.
